Megalosingers
Megaloman

Carefree: one of the most improbable records I have ever had the luxury of purchasing and repeatedly eavesdropping on, incredulous of so much vacuous intrinsic irrelevance, in a vain search for something (almost anything) to mnemonically hum.

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The substance is what is mentioned above: I kindly ask the dear Readers, therefore, to leave me quietly here. Those who [friends, fellow shelter mates, loafers] decide to continue will do so at their own risk and Jap-hazard; if you persist in the proto-elementary reading, it will, objectively, be Your Problem.

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You don't come out alive from the eighties at all [Nostalgia Rowdiness Pt. 2]

Indeed!

Because, My dear, rambunctious but cordial De-Friends of the more or less incandescent Metal, when you are just a little more than really youthful (year of release of such an unspeakable musical "cornerstone": 1981), realizing suddenly afterwards that you have squandered so profusely the rich allowance fruit of yet another little visit to the ever-joyfully smiling grandma is at least poignant if not entirely ercatoclastic (which, be clear, doesn't mean anything: but I liked the sound).

Despite this (but are you really sure you want to continue this aberrant reading?) and despite the "Megalomaniac Season" being alas heavily obscured {by now the lush clash between sharp Gormitis and wanton Winxes rules in microcephalic booted ones}, almost hidden, by the neutral and leveling passage of insurmountable time, it is still here that in some even sly way it wanders around: it is part, albeit in a barely significant way, of my vilified existence and therefore it is good and right to acknowledge and highlight it, albeit from multiple light-years away, potential vices (indeed many) and improbable virtues (frankly indecipherable).

As a partial "excuse" for the origin causing this unlistenable purchase and the embarrassing logic that moved towards such a daring step, it will be appropriate to chronologically focus on the nature itself of the musical-times just revived.

They were (aren't you tired yet of the redundant and moldy reading? I am), decidedly other carefree and jovial de-times: when at the time of publication of this non-postponable forty-five rpm [for those more in need of Topexan/pimply: they were circular and generally black-colored musicophile supports of a vinyl nature, of moderate size {those with a larger diameter - of records - were notably, mind you, thirty-three rpm: which I never understood why the smaller ones had to spin faster than the larger-circumference ones that went much slower: go figure (go)}], when you spoke of the network, at least from my proto-insular parts, the ideal association led directly to Cousin Luigi's friend (and the merry characters of his rickety wooden boat) who one evening arrived at Us, boldly euphoric, carrying on his back such an obese Grouper weighing fifteen-and-twenty-some kilos: alas (if I must be honest), I was sorry for the poor and bloodless ichthyic prey: happy Him.

Basically: besides the fundamental and coalition-building word of mouth among peers and sweaty assorted hooligans, we grope critically musically from the visionary opportunity generously offered to us by the newly-born "private televisions": a true godsend for us miserable and ragged sucklings, the only institutionalized TV enjoyment moment existed on Thursday evening - when they allowed you to see it, of course - [at the same time, at 8:30 PM, there was that not-very-educative Quiz by Mike GoodMorning on the "National Program" - the current Rai1 - threatening our intimate joy] with the celestially marvelous SuperGulp!

By virtue of the birth and proliferation of these we were therefore literally flooded and/or saved (albeit hopelessly "corrupted") from the most total tele-inertia by a whole hypoallergenic series of pro-adolescent "productions" (the most delicious of Rising Sun origin) that, while skirting the ridiculous, inhabited upstream and downstream of their unpresentable episodes (because the Rubber Monsters that long-haired Megalomen fought against were spectacularly ridiculous) themes more or less kissed by qualitative "success" such as the one I now have the honor to rave about:

“Megaloman (Megaroman) is the name of the superhero of a tokusatsu science fiction/superhero/kaiju TV series” (Source Wikipedia)

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It is notorious: you don't come out alive from the nineties either [Nor From the Seventies]

Well then, after so much illegibly vacuous panegyric, I would move on (why not) to vocalize such iridescent First Work (and hopefully only) of the daringly avant-garde Ensemble called Megalosingers; in the first state-in-place, after having appropriately (re)dusted off [for correctness and for the sake of history] the little vinyl in question, it occurs to me urgently, almost burning, that they have chosen a decidedly audio-castrating name: MegaloSingers (even if kissed by fortune thanks to an intergalactic commercial success) couldn't, after such a heroic theme, record anything of a different nature: can you imagine the Megalosingers lauding the "competitors" Jeeg Steel Robot and/or Mazinger Z? Highly improbable (indeed, not at all)!

Because, Dear Lords passionate or otherwise of fine cathodic idleness, this Record, despite nearly thirty years of forced deprivation, to quote literary and learned, still results in a Latinistic "Defecatio Ad Libitum": literally played by rats (who usually play much worse than dogs: always with all respect for the four-legged endowed animals) and perhaps also further penalized and accompanied (besides the damage the insult) by a text (appreciate the extract below) close to a Megalomaniacal delusion of omnipotence*,

"You are the hero of us all,
as great as the immensity,
strong as the truth

ME-ME-GA-GA-LO-LO-MAN,

MEGALOMAN"

A sound-structure spanning panthallassically (mono)neuronic composed of a bass line, defining simplistic is to exaggerate in fluttering compliments, unspeakably repeated for all of the total three-minutes-twenty-six-firsts alongside which we see the daring intertwining of female choirs that scan the aberrant textuality, on which a (male) leading voice repeats only and exclusively the name of our golden-eyed Hero, to exacerbating, exhausting, wearing down infinitum.

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Who said you can't come out alive from the eighties [Unheard developments]?

And then they say no one buys records anymore today: thanks to the whimsical! Apart from the fact that they (vinyl supports) now cost three eyes of the head, but especially aware of having absorbed such tortures at an innocent age (not without some pipe blow: which came to you, not without a certain reason, cranial if you broke more than normal/required/necessary), being to this day even more traumatized and savvy first you evaluate and then (perhaps) you (more or less) imprudently buy!

Anyway: may the flowing Mane of Megalopolis' Flame incinerate you (and incinerate, since we're at it, also the Sonhora that I discovered, much to my dismay, a few days ago)!

*note for the use and consumption of the only and unrepentant Trotskyists: which, I don't want to seem irreverent, to tell the truth, at the level of mere textual-expressionist delusion it seems to me it closely approaches the theses incarnated and propagated by the known plutocratic of (dis)trust that - with serious likelihood - will lead us in the presumably rich and ruined next five years